


there is no space for anything but dreaming

by perennials



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, go yuuri go, officially Not Canon Compliant as of Episode Ten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/pseuds/perennials
Summary: “Gotcha.” Yuuri grins breathlessly down at him. His cheeks are lipstick-pink and flushed with exertion, and it’s cold enough out to warrant scarves and sweaters but he’s sweating like it’s the middle of summer. His hair is in an absolute mess, strands twisting around his ear and clumping together haphazardly over his forehead. He’s an absolute, gorgeous mess.
Viktor’s chest tightens. I love this man, he thinks. I love him so much I could die.
-
Or, Viktor's twenty-nine and tired, and Yuuri has something really important to say.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授權翻譯】there is no space for anything but dreaming by perennials](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9351125) by [inoripooh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoripooh/pseuds/inoripooh)



> this is set approximately two years in the future. viktor is 29 now. yuuri is 25 (?). writing on the assumption that they've been living together for a while, a while meaning a year or two.  
> title is from The Girl in the Flammable Skirt. wish i was that cool but nah.  
> that's all. read on

On the morning of his twenty-ninth birthday, Viktor wakes up alone in bed with a sore back and a sore ass and the sourest mood in history. The blinds are half-drawn, a pie-slice of sunlight dancing across the covers and the left side of his face. The room is too-cold and too-empty. Noticeably empty.

 

Suddenly, death seems very appealing.

 

He maintains this pessimistic mindset as he burrows back into the blankets, grumbling unintelligibly to himself. Twenty-nine, twenty-nine, _twenty-nine_ — God, he's _old_ now. Twenty-nine means just one more year to thirty, and after thirty he figures he might as well retire to the grave already.

 

Just as sleep begins welcoming his sad, pitiable self back into its open arms Viktor’s jolted awake by the protesting thud of the door being kicked open. He frowns.

 

“Viktor?”

 

Ah— it's Yuuri. Actually, of _course_ it's Yuuri. As far as he can recall, Makkachin’s never been strong enough to bash through the wooden frame of the door.

 

“Viktor’s not here,” he answers woefully. Hopefully the wavery edge to his voice is enough for Yuuri to take the hint and leave him to wallow in self-pity.

 

Unfortunately for him, no such thing happens.

 

“Oh, so you were here after all!” The sound of padding feet, the curtains being drawn, then—

 

“The light, oh, the light! Yuuri, you horrible, horrible man, I think I'm dying!”

 

Viktor blinks another fifteen (hundred) times before his eyes finally adjust to his _goddamn bright_ surroundings. He feels awfully vulnerable without his personal cocoon of safety, so he concentrates that frustration into a childish, highly pronounced pout and shoots it Yuuri’s way.

 

Yuuri merely tugs the sheets further away from Viktor, grinning cheerfully at him as he kneels at the foot of the bed.

 

“I hate you,” Viktor sniffles dramatically and proceeds to rub an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. He makes a grab at the blanket’s edge, and succeeds, but Yuuri goes tumbling forward into Viktor’s arms along with it.

 

He braces his hands on either side of Viktor’s head, leaning down to bump their foreheads together. “You love me,” he says lowly, smugly, and in the distance Viktor hears cymbals crashing as bits of last night flash through his mind.

 

He _tsks_ in reply, arching his back up away from the mattress as he presses a quick kiss to Yuuri’s lips. Before he can escalate the situation, Yuuri’s propelled himself off the bed like a rocket and wrapped a hand around his wrist.

 

He pulls, gently. “C’mon, we’re going out.”

 

//

 

By the time Viktor’s finished washing up in the bathroom and covered up enough skin to no longer be considered a public indecency, Yuuri’s already waiting for him in the doorway. Makkachin barks a greeting from his side.

 

Viktor walks over and lowers his head without asking so Yuuri can wind a thick, cherry-red scarf around his neck. “Thanks.” The word dissipates into mint-scented puffs of air, and Yuuri nods in return.

 

“Ready to go?” He's got a backpack on over a thick wool sweater, the one Viktor had insisted they buy a few months back because it had a scrambled egg print and he couldn't stop laughing at it, and he’s fiddling with something in his pocket.

 

Viktor pauses, glancing curiously at Yuuri. “Where are we going?”

 

“Don't look at me like that, it's someplace nice, I promise.” Yuuri offers a small smile, then adds on quickly, “so is that a yes or a no?”

 

“Mmm, you can wait for me outside, I'll be out in a minute.”

 

“Okay.” Yuuri turns the doorknob, the click of the latch followed by the whistle of cold air as he ducks out into the crisp, ten a.m. morning.

 

//

 

Viktor pinches his cheek. Hard.

 

Surprisingly, when he opens his eyes again he's still standing in the same old apartment.

 

Same old two-seater sofa slouched against the far wall and sleek coffee table pressed up against it, same old leather armchair opposite designated for Individuals That Need Space, same old scatter of newspapers and mugs situated in-between.

 

There's one mug in particular that looks to be in better shape than the rest, featuring shiny gold paint and a tiger’s gaping maw. Yuri had given it to them grudgingly when he’d ‘been in the area’, but Yuuri’s smile when he accepted it had been genuine. He still treasures it with a sentimentality suited more for a parent, really, than a man in his twenties. Viktor thinks it's charming.

 

Here they don't have anything that might be considered a proper dining table. Neither is there a single hard-backed, four-legged chair in the house, because Yuuri likes soft things (for example: sofas) and Viktor likes Yuuri (and therefore by extension, sofas). Besides, with the amount of time the pair spends outside just wandering around in circles, it's not really needed.

 

That aside, the lack of a big, clunky table makes the area appear fairly spacious. There's a carpet Yuuri picked up at a garage sale somewhere rolled out on the floor, feathering around the edges but still comfy and warm. Viktor likes digging his toes into it and pretending it's freshly-cut grass.

 

It smells like coffee, leftovers, and warm sunshine. It smells like home.

 

So this is home. _Still_ home.

 

He fishes his keys out of his pocket and heads for the door.

 

//

 

It turns out Yuuri’s backpack contains essentials, such as sandwiches, and water, and candy. As he drives with one eye on the road and the other on the quickly-diminishing food pile, Viktor unwraps his fifth milk caramel and offers it to him.

 

“Want one?” He asks around the glob of candy stuck to his teeth.

 

Yuuri looks at him warily. “I'll pass.”

 

The perfectly-rectangular caramel joins the monstrous rock-formation growing out of Viktor’s mouth. “Suit yourself.”

 

Neither talks much for the rest of the ride. Viktor marvels at the familiar scenery outside and serenades the passing birds and bees with bad renditions of Russian love songs; Yuuri feigns indifference, but taps his fingers along to the beat on the edge of the steering wheel.

 

Eleven a.m. is a good time to be out, Viktor decides. The sky is a crystal clear blue today, and the sun flirts with the scatter of clouds scintillating like white gold sculptures against the light, slipping in and out of sight. There’s caramel, and coffee, and Viktor’s riding a pleasant sugar rush that makes his limbs feel like they've been freed from the compelling laws of gravity.

 

If he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander he can almost pretend he's not twenty-nine but twenty-two, still skating, still laughing like a pearl-pink seashell, still dizzy and giddy with the turbo-powered vigor of youth. He's going to clinch gold at the next competition, again. Yuuri still has years and years of skating, and failing, and winning ahead of him. They're escaping the bone-weary clutches of training, just for a while, heading somewhere far away from the city where they can blow money and time and maybe even each other.

 

He opens his eyes. Yuuri touches the back of his hand briefly, then pulls away.

 

Once they're on the highway Viktor turns up the volume on the radio and blares obnoxious pop music until he can physically feel Yuuri bristling beside him. It’s been fun to tease reactions out of him since day one, and even now that they've grown used to each other, grown into each other like the curls of a grapevine, Viktor still delights in watching Yuuri’s mood careen openly from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other.

 

“You're terrible,” Yuuri declares, his earlier show of kindness all but forgotten.

 

Viktor beams, leans over the armrest, and pecks him on the cheek.

 

“You love me anyway.”

 

//

 

The next thing Viktor knows, the car has stopped, his arm is numb, and he can taste salt in the air.

 

Well. _Actually_ falling asleep hadn't really been on the agenda.

 

“Did you get any sleep at all last night?” Yuuri sighs with no animosity, warm breath fanning out over Viktor’s cheeks.

 

“Of course not,” Viktor smiles, planting a palm squarely in the middle of Yuuri’s chest. “Not with the way you clung to me.”

 

Yuuri rubs at the nape of his neck. “...well, ‘s not like you were complaining.”

 

He lets himself get pushed out of the car by a delighted Viktor, who hops out after him.

 

Viktor throws an arm around his shoulder like he's done so a thousand times before and watches as Yuuri locks the car. “So, what is this promised nice place you speak of?”

 

Yuuri doesn't reply, just looks out into the distance.

 

Curiosity piqued, Viktor turns with him, and— oh.

 

It's the ocean.

 

“It's the ocean,” he murmurs, because the sentence is something so wondrous he feels compelled to let it climb out of his throat like a column of smoke, or maybe glitter. To share it with the most important person to him in the world, who he hopes is as awed as he is.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he notices Yuuri studying him silently with something veiled in his gaze, like a curtain has been drawn across the milk-chocolate brown of his irises. He blinks again and it's gone.

 

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” Yuuri’s voice is quiet and steady, each word glowing as though it's threaded through with fairy lights.

 

“Stunningly so.”

 

And then a cold gust of wind blows in from out of nowhere, an invisible bird lets out a cry that sounds more like a rooster screaming blood murder, and Yuuri jumps.

 

Viktor runs ahead while he’s still reeling from the shock of the moment, carelessly kicking his sneakers off and making a mad dash for the water’s edge.

 

“Wha— wait— don’t just _leave_ me here!” Yuuri yells crossly, toeing out of his shoes and following him down onto the spread of buttery-yellow sand.

 

A game of cat and mouse ensues, except this mouse is taller and louder and stronger than the cat and has a laugh so big it could probably swallow the moon whole. Viktor plows on ahead, flying figure gilded gold by the sun, and Yuuri chases after him, never more than three meters behind. Every few minutes he hurls an exasperated, half-baked protest (plea) at Viktor and every few minutes Viktor looks over his shoulder and flashes him a massive, shit-eating grin.

 

It almost seems as though Viktor’s never going to let Yuuri catch up to him, until an Unidentified Beach Object loitering around by his feet draws his attention and makes him stop in the dead-middle of the beach.

 

He bends over to further examine the peculiar, piercing item, has the revelation that it’s merely a trick of the light, and when he straightens his back he’s greeted with a triumphant “AHA” from Yuuri, who promptly bowls him over into the sand.

 

Viktor ends up sprawled out like a kid making snow-angels in the snow with Yuuri sat snugly on his torso.

 

“Gotcha.” Yuuri grins breathlessly down at him. His cheeks are lipstick-pink and flushed with exertion, and it’s cold enough out to warrant scarves and sweaters but he’s sweating like it’s the middle of summer. His hair is in an absolute mess, strands twisting around his ear and clumping together haphazardly over his forehead. _He’s_ an absolute, gorgeous mess.

 

Viktor huffs, admitting defeat. “Okay, you win.”

 

The sharp edge of delight bleeds out of Yuuri’s smile like rainwater down the drain, rounding it into something softer, fonder. His hands slide off Viktor’s shoulders and bury themselves in his hair, thumbs absentmindedly moving in soothing, circular motions.

 

Viktor’s chest tightens. _I love this man_ , he thinks. _I love him so much I could die._

 

And loving Yuuri is a habit now, as ordinary as swapping coffee mugs every other day or not having to ask when they're walking Makkachin because they subconsciously decide on it each time, but Viktor swears he's never going to get used to watching his face light up like a sunbeam in the morning, or lying awake in bed studying the child-young slant of vulnerability to his sleep-drowsy features. Being with him is like breathing, if breathing were a luxury you won at the lottery. Viktor thinks he's the luckiest man in the world.

 

In one smooth motion he reverses their positions and has Yuuri pinned underneath him. Not giving him time to retaliate, Viktor leaps out of range, springing up on knees that echo a mild protest.

 

Somewhere along the way his scarf must have loosened from around his neck, because he can feel the tasseled ends flapping along in the wind as he runs back down the length of the beach. The sand squelching beneath his toes feels oddly like cookie crumbs, the air as sweet as sugar and cream, and he lets out a ringing laugh as he high tails it away from Yuuri.

 

But, you know, stamina’s always been the guy’s strong suit, and maybe Viktor’s growing old, or his heart’s growing soft, because Yuuri’s back at his side in no time.

 

Once he's within reach Yuuri grabs one end of his scarf and yanks it free. Viktor squeals like a five year-old, a prominent moue perched on his lips.

 

“Let me,” Yuuri says, elbowing Viktor’s protesting limbs out of the way. He wraps the scarf loosely around Viktor’s head, winding the soft fabric from front to back until only a pair of ocean-blue eyes are left blinking back in abject confusion.

 

A moment (for processing) later Viktor starts laughing again, the sound muffled through the overlapping layers of thick merino wool. “What’re you doi—”

 

Blink, stutter, smile. Yuuri is the picture of reticence, lips quirked up affectionately. He looks like he's hiding a secret. Blink, stutter, breathe. The smile slips away like quicksand.

 

“Happy birthday,” he breathes into the slant of space between them, just loud enough for his voice to travel above the coarse chatter of the waves.

 

Viktor’s heart soars in his chest like it’s buzzed on alcohol. It's grown wings. Five pairs of them.

 

“Thank y—” he starts to say but Yuuri cuts him off with a finger to his lips over the scarf (silently Viktor curses its existence), finds his hand where it’s fisted tightly at his side, and opens it up.

 

Something small and hard and cold, like a key, is pressed into the center of his palm, and Yuuri’s fingers gently encircle it, forcing Viktor’s hand to close around the object. Not giving him time to process, Yuuri leans forward until his mouth is right next to Viktor’s ear ( he's _tip-toeing_ , he realizes).

 

He says three words. Just three.

 

Then Viktor’s tugging his scarf down so he can speak, so he can _breathe,_  so he can kiss Yuuri dizzy, one hand locked around his waist and the other still holding his gift like a promise. Everything about Yuuri is cotton-candy head-in-the-clouds sweet, always, but right now he's softer than the most expensive silk, he's a sugar rush that's gone to Viktor’s head, he's giggling and still tip-toeing and love-letter pink.

 

When he finally pulls away Viktor’s not sure what kind of expression he's making anymore (this is a first for him, one of many, many firsts), but his cheeks hurt and his heart hurts and everything’s kind of too-sharp, like someone’s upped the saturation and intensity to sky-high levels.

 

Speaking of skies, is it raining? His cheeks are wet. His eyes are, too. Everything is blurry like a shitty instagram photo, focus shifting too fast to follow. Damn the weather for its untimely entrance into his fairytale ending.

 

“You're crying,” Yuuri says in wonderment, tracing his cheek lightly with one finger.

 

“I'm crying,” Viktor agrees, but for once in his life it's fine— everything’s really, really fine. He has fifty pairs of wings now, sprouting out of his back, each one a blessing from a honey-voiced angel. He's ready to shoot off into outer space.

 

Because Yuuri wants him. Forever. He turned twenty-nine last night and Yuuri wants him. He's never going to clinch another gold medal and Yuuri wants him. He can't outrun everyone at the annual charity marathon anymore and Yuuri wants him.

 

And he wants Yuuri right back, wants bleary-eyed Sunday mornings and trips to the beach and mix-and-match conversations in Russian and English and Japanese and _everything_ , see he’s getting old now, so it's okay if he's a little selfish, right?

 

He kisses Yuuri again.

 

//

 

_Let’s get married._

 

Viktor says yes, naturally.

**Author's Note:**

> so um this is my third fic for yoi. lol. an actual summary for this fic would be something more like viktor turns twenty-nine and then yuuri proposes. that's literally it. but yeah.  
> i'm @nikiforcvs on twitter and @corpsentry on tumblr if u wanna send me prompts/fight me/be my friend  
> thanks for reading! if ya liked it pls do consider leaving a kudo or a comment esp a comment those are my *lifeblood*
> 
> have a good one
> 
> p.s. if viktor leaves yuuri in the last episode _i'm_ leaving


End file.
